


London Unpacked

by colisahotnorthernmess



Category: Italy Unpacked (TV) RPF
Genre: Established Relationship, Flirting, Hotel Sex, London, M/M, Reminiscing, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-28
Updated: 2019-05-28
Packaged: 2020-03-20 11:58:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,192
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18992209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/colisahotnorthernmess/pseuds/colisahotnorthernmess
Summary: Andrew and Giorgio are strolling through London streets, following a meeting."You know samthing - maybe we should do a London Unpacked," he suggested.Andrew beamed. As much as they were searching for a subject for their latest series, he didn't think the producers would go for that idea, but he played along nonetheless. "Number one on the list - a little restaurant called Locanda Locatelli. You probably haven't heard of it - it's very small," he smirked."It is an 'amble little trattoria, with a Michelin star," Giorgio joked. "Yes - dat would be first on the list for the viewers, but what about the second?" came the inquiry. "What about the place where we shared our first kiss after coming back from Sicily that time, all of those years ago?" he nudged Andrew and produced a blush from the older man.





	London Unpacked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mcicioni](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mcicioni/gifts).



> This is for Mcicioni, who is currently travelling across Europe - even if she isn't coming to London!
> 
> *~*~*~*
> 
> Please note that this is a work of fiction involving real people written by myself - it is a completely made-up fantasy and is in no way intended to cause offence.

It was incredible - how, in this city, things could go from the ridiculous to the sublime in a matter of seconds. One minute you could be, as the pair indeed _were_ , jostling your way through several elbows, of businessmen, mothers with prams, and elderly gentlemen with walking sticks, to step off a sweaty tube train, out into the open air of the Underground platform, which was no less crowded - and, nine (possibly an exaggeration) escalators later, you were emerging from steps and into daylight, to see one of the most stunning cities in the world - which seemed to look _different_ every time. Not that everything hadn't changed dramatically for Andrew since meeting Giorgio; the whole _world_ seemed to look different now.

"What a gorgeous day," Andrew exclaimed, his face finally graced with sunshine.

"Completely, isn't it?" was Giorgio's way of agreeing. "You'a know 'ow much I love my 'ome country, Andrew," he started, "But there is just samthing about London that is so--"

"--Electrifying," the sentence was finished for him, albeit slightly out of breath as the two men scaled stairs.

They had just spent the last three hours or so in talks with BBC executives, to see what future lied ahead for their programme-making, and to discuss the possibility of future 'Unpacked' shows. It had been anything _but_ electrifying; one practically needed to be electro _cuted_ in order to stay awake but, hopefully, the outcome of it had been positive.

"It is so diverse 'ere," Locatelli continued, "There is just every kind of person imaginable." He looked around him to see people around him of all colours and creeds, sizes and statures, and it made him happy, given how much racism that he, himself, had suffered in his career, and how he had found acceptance in London - the one and only thing that _these_ people had in common was the fact that they were _rushing_. But, in spite of this, the chef was slightly surprised by what he would see next: several Japanese schoolgirls in brightly-coloured wigs gathered on a street corner. "I mean - just look at _those_ guys," he gesticulated, "Oh my god, and there is another one." When he saw a burly 'warrior' approach the group, dressed in armour and a sword on his back, with a large red flame of hair, he was rendered speechless.

"They're going to a comic convention," there was an explanation provided, and the other man shook his head with a small snort of laughter.

"'Ow do you'a know dat, Andrew? Is there anything that you do not know?" he teased him.

"I'll have you know that I'm very familiar with the medium of comic books as an art form - thank you," Graham-Dixon spoke mock-condescendingly, in a way that said 'I am not _so_ far out of touch with the young people' - "They were extremely influential in the shaping of 1960's pop art."

"Hmm," the Italian agreed, still so distracted by the unusual sight. "You know samthing - maybe we should do a London Unpacked," he suggested.

Andrew beamed. As much as they were searching for a subject for their latest series, he didn't think the producers would go for that idea, but he played along nonetheless. "Number one on the list - a little restaurant called Locanda Locatelli. You probably haven't heard of it - it's very small," he smirked.

"It is an 'amble little trattoria, with a Michelin star," Giorgio joked. "Yes - dat would be first on the list for the viewers, but what about the second?" came the inquiry. "What about the place where we shared our first _kiss_ after coming back from Sicily that time, all of those years ago?" he nudged Andrew and produced a blush from the older man.

"Shhh," he told him, fervently glancing around.

"What about the 'otel where we'a first--"

"--Ehp," Andrew silenced him, sharply, but with a grin. "Zip it," he whispered, bashfully, knowing how much Giorgio was undoubtedly _enjoying_ making him squirm.

The room in question had been small and unassuming - booked for them by a close friend - a _very_ close friend. In any of the top-ranking hotels, of course they would have been recognised immediately - however, this place was _far_ from being top rank and, indeed, was rather closer to being, simply, _rank_. But - at least - it was hard to imagine that anybody with any knowledge of art historians or fine dining would have been staying in _this_ hotel, Andrew had mused, as he'd studied the staining to the carpet and the appalling state of the curtains, skirting boards which hadn't been painted for the best part of twenty years and cobwebs which had been there for so long that the spiders who had created them were probably long-dead. It wasn't what he was used to - it wasn't what _either_ of them were used to; it was the _last_ place anybody would expect them to be. He felt oddly protected by this thought.

And, when they fell back onto the sheets of the bed, and all they could focus on was one another, they could have been back in Italy for all they knew - the walls were invisible to them. Graham-Dixon could have almost sworn that he'd felt the same prickle of heat upon his neck as he had, say, the day they'd sampled Etna wine together, under searing Sicilian sun, as Locatelli had fried vine leaves in batter and the pair had joked and laughed together in the vineyard. He felt that same tenderness and sensuality now, as Giorgio had stroked his face, their heads aligned on the pillows so that their eyes were level. Soon, the softness was to become rougher and the slow, gentle pace was to quicken, as clothes were removed, bodies were _caressed_ and _loved_ , fingers encased around hardness, tongues moving over nipples - slick, wet and hot--

"--What about the National Gallery?" the query was asked, suddenly breaking Andrew's lewd thoughts.

"Naturally," he agreed, with a nod, still slightly flushed from his fantasies.

"When are you'a going to take me there, Andrew? You keep promising," Giorgio wrapped an arm around his back and pressed fingers, lovingly, into the material of his suit jacket.

"You've been there before, haven't you?"

"But not with you as a guide," there was a soft smile. "I want to know the story behind _every_ painting, man. _I want to tire you out_."

"Yes..." Andrew chuckled to himself; it certainly wouldn't have been the first time Giorgio had done _that_ in the last six years. And, whilst he may have been Italian through and through - like _London,_  Giorgio was exasperating and yet, at the same time, thoroughly beautiful. He felt it was _no_ coincidence that they had chosen _here_ to continue what they had _started_ in Palermo, that one fateful, drunken night - eyes flirtatiously flickering downwards, shyly - biting their own lips to stop themselves - hands nervously playing with hair as they conversed - resulting in all of _this_ once they had gotten back home. But, the location was irrelevant. _London, Palermo, Florence_ \- it didn't matter, just so long as it was _he and Giorgio_ , he realised, the younger man's shoulder grazing against his as they walked on.


End file.
